


We Take Care Of Our Own

by Luna_Hart



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: HYDRA Husbands, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Past Child Abuse, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Secrets
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-18
Updated: 2017-06-18
Packaged: 2018-11-15 13:05:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11231601
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Luna_Hart/pseuds/Luna_Hart
Summary: Brock Rumlow and Jack Rollins take care of each other. Two separate moments where one takes care of the other when a dark secret from their past comes to light.





	1. Jack

“Fucking shit!” Jack gritted his teeth as a spasm of pain laced up his leg. One compromised mission, a three-story fall, two broken legs, a bunch of titanium and plaster later, and Jack was almost at the end of his rope. It had almost been two weeks since he had been sent home from the hospital and he hadn't had a decent night sleep since. He was uncomfortable, tired, and grouchy, but he still refused to take the pain pills or sleep aids the doctor had proscribed. 

Jack squeezed his eyes shut and clenched his fists as another spasm hit, this time rippling up his back. Soft footsteps padded into the room and he opened his eyes to Brock, dressed comfy in greys sweats and one of Jack’s Metallica shirts. He set down a glass of water and a couple small pills on the nightstand. Jack glared and Brock raised his hands in mock surrender. “It’s just a tylenol three and a muscle relaxant.”  
“Don’t want it,” Jack muttered, turning his head away. He knew he sounded childish, but he didn't care. Those muscle relaxants made him feel drowsy and tylenol threes made him feel nauseous. 

He didn’t take heavy duty pain killers or sleeping aids, ever. Nothing stronger the occasional Advil. Nothing that could make him drowsy. It was a big source of contention between the two of them, especially considering their line of work and how often one, if not both of them, came home injured. Brock heaved an exasperated sigh. He left the bedroom, throwing a “Fine, whatever. Go ahead and suffer,” over his shoulder.  
Jack rolled his eyes. Brock always had a tendency to be a bit over dramatic. He stretched his neck from side to side, trying to release some of the tension as he listen to Brock putter around in the kitchen. A few minutes later and Brock returned with a steaming mug.  
“Sit up,” Brock set the mug down and tugged at Jack’s sleeve. “Up, up. Come on, lazy bones, up”. “Lemme alone.” Jack swatted at Brock’s hand, who in turn delivered a quick swat to the side of Jack’s head. 

“Ow, what the fuck?!” Jack growled. He was not in the mood for Brock’s…anything right now. He had known the man for over fifteen years and somehow Brock still had this way of getting under his skin. Sometimes he found it endearing, but mostly he found it annoying. Like right now.  
Hands slipped up under his arms and pull him into a sitting position. Pain shot down his legs like lightening, and he let out another curse.  
“Easy, easy,” Brock murmured as he rearranged the pillows.  
Next thing Jack knew, he was being gently pulled back against a muscular chest. Strong thighs bracketed him on either side and fingers softly scratched across his scalp.  
This type of tenderness was rare between them. For them, terms of endearment were replaced with insults, and light caresses with head-swats and butt-slaps.  
At night they slept on their relative sides of the bed, only occasionally waking with an arm or a leg thrown over each other.

Sometimes however, when one of them was injured or they had come back from a really difficult mission, they’d curl up on the couch or in bed and just hold each other.  
Jack closed his eyes and leaned back against the other man, enjoying the gentle scratch of blunt fingers against his scalp. Maybe this was worth a little annoyance and discomfort.  
He took a deep breath, inhaling Brock’s scent of Old Spice and gun oil.  
Another deep breath revealed hints of citrus and honey. Jack opened his eyes to the steaming mug of tea being shoved into his hands. He took a sip, barely stifling a groan as Brock’s fingers started to work at the tense muscled cording his neck.  
“Drink up, Jacky boy.” Brock said in a sing-song voice. “Asshole,” Jack muttered as he took another sip. “What, you roofie it or somethin’?” 

Brock’s only response was to move his massage lower to his shoulders. Jack takes another sip, starting to feel warm and sleepy. His eyelids began to droop. He felt Brock take the mug from his hands and press a gentle kiss on the top of his head. Jack started to feel like something was wrong. He wanted to say something, but he just couldn't keep his eyes open. 

 

Jack struggled to open his eyes. His eyes were gritty and heavy, his tongue too big for his mouth, and his head felt like it was stuffed with cotton. He blinked and struggled to swallow. His throat was as dry as sandpaper. All the sensations were alarmingly familiar, but somehow he couldn't connect the dots. He looked around the bedroom. It was dark outside the windows. A soft light glowed in the room. 

Brock shifted behind him, turning the page of the book that he was reading. “What time is it?” Jack tried to say, but it came out all slurred. He felt Brock’s chest vibrate as he chuckled. “Late. Or early, depending on how you look at it. You were out for almost eight hours.”  
“But it wasn’t even dinner yet,” Jack wasn't sure that sentence made sense, but he knew he hadn't been able to sleep that long since his surgery, not without painkillers, not without…..  
“Did…did you drug me?” Jack whispered, already knowing the answer but hoping like hell he was wrong. 

“Jack, you’ve barely slept since the hospital discharged you,” Brock began.  
“So you drugged me,” Jack interrupted. “Without my knowledge.”  
Brock snapped back with some snarky reply, but Jack had already stopped listening. It was like listening to someone from the bottom of a well. Everything was muffled and his chest felt tight, like Jack couldn’t get enough oxygen. He clenched his jaw, grinding his teeth but it didn't stop the tremors running over his body. He felt hot, and then cold, and then hot again.  
Arms wrap around him from behind, restricting his movements, and he panicked.  
He flailed his arms; his elbow connecting with something. More hands grabbed at him, pinning his wrists against his chest. He couldn’t breath. 

He was lost in the memory of a different mission got wrong; of drugs that made his head foggy, of metal shackles, and needles, and pain, and screaming until his throat was raw. Of hands holding him down just like the hands that were holding him now. He couldn't let it happen, not again. He slammed his head back, barely registering the crunch and a muffled curse. 

 

 

Brock Rumlow was known for not always making the best decisions, but they were almost always made with the best intentions. So, when Jack refused again to take any pain medication after breaking both his fucking legs, Brock had had enough. He just wanted Jack to get a good nights sleep. Rest was important for healing, even Brock knew that. He couldn't stand the pain Jack was constantly in. He could see it around Jack’s eyes, the way they always looked pinched and tight. So yeah, he drugged the tea. That might not have been his best idea to date, but if Jack got some proper rest, his conscience would rest easy. 

He’d watched with mild amusement as Jack’s eyes slowly drooped. He took the mug from his hand and picked up the book Jack had currently been reading. It was some war story that looked really dull and boring but it was the only thing within reach. He found himself actually becoming invested in some of the characters as the sun set and the room grew dark. He turned the lights on and dimmed them down low, one of the few luxuries he had afforded himself when he refurbished the apartment. 

Eventually Jack began to stir. Slowly and sloppily, he crawled back to consciousness. Brock smiled at Jack’s attempt at forming a cohesive sentence, his words thick and slurred with sleep and the remnants of the drug in his system. He tried to defend his actions when Jack asked him if he had drugged him. He tried to be rational, but then Jack interrupted with this flat tone of voice that frankly got on Brock’s nerves.  
“Ok, I’ve had it with this macho bullshit, refusing to take your meds,” Brock snapped. “I hate the foggy feeling too, man, but rest is what you need to heal and the Advil doesn't do shit for you anymore and….hey, you good?”  It wasn't until halfway into his explanations that he noticed Jack was shaking. Not with anger, this was different. Fine tremors shook Jack’s whole body and his breath was coming out in quiet, shaky pants. 

“Jack?” When Jack didn’t reply, Brock’s concern grew. “Hey, hey, hey Jack.” Brock tossed the book aside and went to wrap his arms around the other man. “Jacky, what the hell is going…ow, shit!” Jack flailed, his elbow connecting hard with the side of Brock’s head.  
Brock grabbed at Jack’s wrists, pinning them against Jack’s chest and thus pinning Jack against his chest. “Just calm down alright, you’re gonna hurt yourself!”  
But Jack wasn't hearing him anymore. Pain exploded across Brock’s face as Jack slammed his head back. It connected with Brock’s nose with a crunch of bone and hot blood poured down his face.  
“Fuck!” Brock exclaimed, trying to keep Jack’s arms controlled while also trying, and failing, to keep from getting blood all over the bed and Jack.  
In desperation he grabbed the glass of water from the nightstand and threw down into Jack’s face.  
Jack spluttered, but stopped thrashing long enough for Brock to get a good grip on both of his wrists with one hand. The other grabbed Jack’s chin, wrenching his head around to look at him.  
“Settle down. Shit, I think you broke my nose, what the—” Any further admonishments died on Brock’s lips as his eyes met Jack’s. 

Most people would say that Jack Rollins was a cold, emotionless son of a bitch. Brock knew better. Brock had known Jack for a long time. He’d seen him in every state.  
He had seen him so livid with rage that his eyes seemed to spark, and so hopped up with blood lust and battle fever that his eyes blazed with heat. He’d seen Jack so blissed out after an evening in bed together that his eyes drooped and looked glazed.  
Brock had even seen Jack scared, eyes hard and giving nothing away; but none of it compared to this — this broken glass stare. 

“Hey, hey, hey,” Brock soothed, trying to exude calm while his stomach felt like it had taken up residence in his throat. “Talk to me, hey? What’s going on?” Jack said nothing, just avoided eye contact and tried half-heartedly to free his wrists.  
“You gotta talk to me.” Brock reasoned, not letting go of Jack’s wrists.“I ain’t no mind-reader here.”  
Jack started to tremble again. Brock released Jack’s wrists and just held on, running his fingers through Jack’s shaggy hair.  
Jack tucked his head down. His breath started to come out in breathy pants that if Brock didn’t know better, didn’t know Jack, he would have sworn were sobs.  
“I got you, I got you. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.” Brock kept up this mantra until Jack’s breathing evened and slowed. “Fuck,” Brock breathed to himself. How in the hell was he supposed to fix this?

Finally Jack slowly looked back up at him on his own accord. his eyes went to Brock’s bloody and slightly crooked nose. “I’m sorry,” Jack rasped but Brock shook his head. “No, no I’m the one whose sorry,” Brock whispers, gently thumbing Jack’s cheek, wiping away the tear tracks he had avoided looking at before. “Shit, I….fuck, I’m so sorry Jacky.”  
“It’s okay.” Jack said in that awful, flat sounding voice. “You didn’t know.”  
“No, it’s not fucking okay.” Brock snapped. He cursed silently as Jack flinched, so slight that he almost missed it. He wasn’t good at this shit. He was good at shooting things, and he dealt with his problems by sleeping, drinking, fighting, and fucking them away. He wasn’t any good at talking about emotions, and he certainly wasn’t good at it with Jack. The main reason for that was because it never was Jack. Jack was always the strong, silent type. He was the rock, the one who didn't break. He dealt with his problems quietly, by going for runs so long he would come back with muscles trembling and completely out of breath.  
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” Brock threaded his fingers through Jack’s hair, scratching gently across his scalp.  
“Talk to me. Please? Tell me what happened?”  
It was a long moment before Jack finally spoke. It was so long that Brock had almost given up hope on an answer, but once he started talking, Jack couldn’t seem to stop. The whole sordid, gut-wrenching tale tumbled from shaking lips. A tale of a mission gone so wrong that it had even Brock, a veteran in pain and violence, feeling nauseous. A mission that happened years ago when Brock had first met Jack. A mission that Brock himself would have been on if it hadn't been for a nasty concussion the week prior. A mission that he never got all the details from, with files redacted even at his clearance. He remembers not seeing Jack for weeks even after the others got back. 

The whole awful picture slowly clicked into place.  
“And that’s why I don’t take any of that shit anymore.” Jack finished quietly.  
They sat in silence for a long moment. Brock just held Jack, knowing that there wasn't anything he could say, fingers carding through the younger mans hair.  
“I gotta piss.” Jack finally broke the silence. Brock helps him carefully to the bathroom where after they both brushed their teeth. Brock set his nose and washed off the blood, leading to another attempt at an apology on Jack’s part which Brock promptly shut down. He helped Jack carefully change into fresh boxers and a shirt. He changed the bloody sheets and tucked Jack back into bed. 

“I’ll sleep on the couch tonight,” Brock said quietly. “I’ll have my phone if you need anything.” He turned to leave but stopped as a hand closed around his wrist. He looked back to Jack and looked him right in that broken glass stare, and damn if he didn't want to just pick up all the pieces and try to put them back together. All he wanted to do was hold him and try to atone for this major fuck-up he created. But only if Jack would let him. If only….  
“Stay,” Jack whispered. “I.…I don’t…I..” Jack looked down, stumbling over what he needed but couldn't voice.  
“Shhhhh shhh shhh,” Brock gently shushed, taking Jack’s hand and brushing away the moisture that had gathered in the corner of Jack’s eye. “I’m right here, darlin’. I ain’t going anywhere.”

 

 

The next morning Jack would be back to his snarky sarcastic self but he would also feel lighter, like a weight he never knew he carried had been lifted from his shoulders. Brock would not mention anything about the breakdown or the ordeal Jack had been through and Jack would pretend that none of it ever happened. He would bitch about his sore back and the knots in his neck. Brock would bitch right back at him, but he would never complain about Jack not taking the pain meds again, opting instead for herbal remedies and massage. 

Eventually down the road, when Jack took a bullet for him on a mission in Dubai, Brock would successfully convince him to take the pain meds. That night Brock would sit up as Jack dosed, there with smoothing words and gentle touches when Jack woke up disorientated and scared.  
But for tonight, Brock was content just to hold the man he loved in his arms and sleep.


	2. Brock

Jack loved the weekends. Specifically the weekends that neither he nor Brock had to work, getting sent off to the ass-crack of the world on the whim of some stuffed suit safe in his fancy penthouse. Jack loved not setting an alarm in the morning, regardless that his body automatically woke him up at dawn anyways. 

Jack loved the lazy morning shower sex and making waffles for the two of them after. Brock couldn't cook for shit. He could heat up left overs real good, but anything else was delegated to Jack. Not that he minded. A man should have his hobbies.  
Then Brock would do the dishes while Jack made more coffee and the two would curl up on the couch and nap, or read, or clean and repair various gear and weaponry with the TV on in the background. 

Eventually they would make lunch or grab sandwiches at the deli down the street that had the best homemade pickles Jack had ever tasted. A quick stop at the mom-and-pop run grocery would supply them for dinner and Brock would probably insist on going into the little bakery to pick up something for dessert, where he would flirt in Italian with the little old lady who owned the shop. Brock had the biggest sweet tooth Jack had ever encountered. They’d probably eat dinner on the little patio and then tumble into bed for round two of the day.  
Jack loved the weekends. However, this weekend….this weekend not so much. 

It started out just like any other weekend would. Jack blearily opened his eyes to the early morning sun leaking around the curtains. He propped up on one elbow, looking down at the still-sleeping form beside him. He loved watching Brock sleep, which sounded really creepy and was something he would never confess to even under threat of torture. Brock just looked so peaceful and relaxed when he slept. All the harsh lines etched from stress and age and squinting into rifle scopes seemed to disappear, making Brock appear much younger. He ran his eyes down the other mans bare back, over old scars and the fading bruises that Brock had collected on their last mission. 

Jack reached up and gently ran his fingers through the other mans thick black hair. It was soft and free of product, just how Jack liked it.  
Brock stirred and groaned, leaning into the touch while simultaneously burring deeper into the covers.  
Jack snuggled up closer, loving how the smaller mans body slotted so perfectly against his own. He slid his hand up Brock’s chest, peppering sloppy kisses along his shoulder before biting the junction where his neck met his shoulder. Brock jumped and cursed, slapping at Jack’s hip. One thing led to another and the next thing Jack knew they were both standing under the spray of their shower, trading lazy soapy kisses. 

After breakfast found them in their traditional position on the couch. Jack was sprawled out along the couch, his nose buried in a book. Brock was sitting cross-legged on the floor, hair still damp from their morning shower, his Glock in pieces on the coffee table. The news was on the TV, some blonde news anchor droning on about some flood or something.  
Jack was pretty invested in his book, so much so that he didn't notice when Brock went unusually still. Before he knew it, Brock was halfway to the door before Jack had even registered that Brock had moved. 

“Brock, what—“ Jack hadn't even finish his sentence before Brock had grabbed his jacket, stuffed his boots on and was out the door. The door slammed so hard it vibrated the floor.  
“What the fuck now,” Jack muttered. He tossed his book aside, intent on chasing after Brock, when a glance at the TV stopped him. He grabbed the remote, turning the volume up.  
“—have come forward to testify against Mr. Wilkinson. Police urge anyone with knowledge to call the hotline below. And now for further news on the —,“

Jack shut the TV off. He grabbed the laptop from under the coffee table and opened up a browser. A quick search brought up a news article about one Robert Wilkinson, arrested on multiple counts of child abuse and neglect against the foster boys under his care going back decades.  
Jack snapped the laptop shut. “Shit.” 

 

Brock didn't come home all morning, so Jack finished cleaning Brock’s Glock. He tried to ping the GPS on Brock’s phone but it had been left in the kitchen. So he went out and got groceries and made himself lunch. He did laundry and cleaned his own sidearm, cleaned his backup, and then cleaned Brock’s backup. It started to get dark outside, so Jack made dinner and kept the leftovers warm in the oven. When it started to rain, Jack got a pair of sweats and Brock’s favourite shirt, the one with the hole in the armpit, and tossed them in the dryer. 

Jack was sitting on the couch struggling to keep his eyes open when the door softy clicked shut. He looked up to see a soaking wet Brock toeing off his boots in the foyer. Jack could smell the alcohol all the way from the couch and Brock’s movements were uncoordinated and sloppy.  
He didn't even glance Jack’s way, just stumbled straight to the kitchen and poured himself a generous portion of bourbon. He downed it in one and began to pour another. Jack heaved himself off the couch and crossed into the kitchen as Brock was pouring himself a third glass.  
Brock stilled as Jack stepped up behind him, his shoulders hunched in on himself. He made no move to turn around, his fingers clenched white around the glass. 

Jack slowly reached out a hand to Brock’s shoulder. He barely made contact when Brock flinched away. He turned and whipped the glass across the room. It shattered in a million pieces against the wall, glass and bourbon raining down over the rug and couch.  
Brock lashed out, his fist connecting with the fridge with such force that magnets flew off and various cereal boxes fell from the top.  
Only then did Brock turn to Jack, his eyes red-rimmed and his face wet; from the rain or something else Jack couldn't tell. His hair lay flat against his head and dripped down his neck. He was breathing harshly, like a caged animal.

Neither of them were good at dealing with this emotional shit, but Jack just followed his first instinct. As Brock tried to brush past Jack, the bigger man reached out and pulled Brock into a tight embrace. Brock struggled back against him, cursing, but Jack refused to let go. Brock struck his fists against Jack’s ribs, hammering against him so Jack’s embrace turned more into a headlock. 

He knew this was how Brock dealt with his problems. He drank, fought, slept, or fucked them out of his mind. Probably not the best coping mechanisms, but Jack was hardly the person to judge.  
So he endured the abuse his ribs were currently taking and seized the first opportunity that presented itself. Brock struggled, but fatigue and cold and intoxication made him slightly slower than usual. Jack managed to spin Brock around, pulling him against his chest. His hands pinned down Brock’s wrists. 

Jack squeezed his arms around the smaller man tightly. Brock thrashed wildly, cursing, and threw his head back but Jack was expecting it. He dodged it and didn’t let go. Brock’s breathing had gotten rapid, his eyes rolling and legs kicking out as he tried to find purchase on the slippery tile floor. Jack’s only response was to hold on tighter still. His little sister used to get anxiety attacks when they were kids. His mama had told him to hold her tight and not to let go. 

What felt like hours later, but was probably only a few minutes, Brock’s breathing began to even and he stopped trying to smash his head back into Jack’s face. His body went slack all of a sudden and only Jack’s hold on him kept him from sliding right down onto the kitchen floor.  
“Wow, easy, easy.” Jack murmured against Brock’s hair. “Come on, lets go.” He led Brock into the bathroom, turning on the shower. 

As steam filled the room, he helped Brock peel off his wet clothing and left him to shower while he cleaned up the shattered glass and mopped up the bourbon as best he could. The couch might be a lost cause, but he had been trying to convince Brock to get a new one anyways. He turned off the oven and packed the food into the fridge.  
He had just finished when he heard the shower turn off. He grabbed the clothes he had stuffed in the dryer earlier and lead Brock to the bedroom, making sure his drunken stumbling didn't end in any injuries.

Brock still refused to look him in the eyes. Jack didn’t push it, just stripped off his own pants and climbed into bed next to Brock.  
He gave the smaller man plenty of space, and turned out the lights.  
It wasn’t long before he felt Brock’s body shift and there was a tentative touch on his shoulder. He rolled over and Brock folded into his arms. 

 

Jack woke the next morning to an empty bed. He threw on pants and stumbled out into the kitchen. Still no Brock. Yawning, he poured himself a cup of coffee and caught a glimpse of a dark figure standing on the porch. 

Brock leaned against the railing, a cigarette dangling from his fingers. The knuckles on his hand were bruised and angry looking. Jack joined him, big hands cupped around his coffee. Brock didn't acknowledge his presence, just took a long drag, exhaling the smoke through his nose. Brock didn’t smoke, not really. He only did it when he was very stressed or very hungover, so Jack supposed today was a double whammy. 

Brock reached over and pulled up Jack’s shirt, cursing under his breath as he revealed the scattered bruises that had bloomed overnight as a result of Brock’s fists.  
They stood in silence for a long time, watching the sun peak up over the office buildings of downtown. In the far distance Jack could see the Triskelion, a massive metal and mortar silhouette against the early dawn.  
Brock finished his cigarette, snubbing it out against the railing and tossing it over the edge.  
“I’m sorry,” Brock rasped, his voice rough and husky.  
“Is all good,” Jack said mildly. “I hated that couch anyways.”  
Brock snorted, snagging Jack’s coffee from his hands and draining it in two big gulps.  
“Asshole,” Jack muttered, snatching the mug back just in case Brock had any smart ideas of pitching it over the railing as well.

They stood in silence for another long moment as the sun fully crested the buildings.  
“You wanna talk about it?” Jack said quietly, already knowing the answer.  
“Nothing to talk about,” Brock said predictably. “He was a mean old bastard who liked to beat the shit outta me. I was outta there the first chance I got. Never looked back and not about to start now.”  
“Okay,” Jack said. He stretched his arms up and cracked his back. “I’ll start breakfast. You want eggs or waffles?”  
“Eggs and waffles?” Jack chuckled. Another predictable reply. 

They ate breakfast in relative silence and then Jack did the dishes, waving aside Brock’s protests that he shouldn't have to both cook and clean. They curled up on the couch and spent the day watching cheesy horror movies and bad actions flicks. Jack left only once to pick up sandwiches from the deli, with extra pickles, and Brock’s favourite pastries from the Italian bakery. 

 

 

Months later, Brock was sitting at one end of the couch. Jack’s feet were in his lap and his own foot was bruised purple and propped up on the coffee table with an ice pack. Jack himself was nursing a nasty concussion and kept his hands busy by sharpening one of his massive hunting knife, whetstone in hand.

Brock flipped absentmindedly through the channels, switching between the sports network and some talent show with a dancing dog, trying to figure out what would annoy Jack more.  
Jack didn’t pay any attention, just hoping Brock would settle on something soon.  
“Breaking news from Lincoln Correctional Facility,” A perky blonde newscaster said in a weird sing-song voice as the news channel flashed by. Brock froze, eyes locked onto the screen.  
“Robert Wilkinson, who was awaiting his hearing after being found guilty on multiple counts of child endangerment, neglect, and abuse, was found dead in his cell earlier this morning. Police are not releasing details in regards to his death at this time, but foul play has not yet been ruled out.”

Brock glanced down at Jack, but Jack just continued sharpening his knife like he hadn't a care in the world. After a moment, Brock started flipping through channels again, finally settling on some buddy-buddy comedy. 

 

Later that night, as Jack was finishing the dishes from dinner, Brock joined him in the kitchen. He hoisted himself up next to the sink and waited for Jack to finish. He barely waited long enough for Jack to finish drying his hands before grabbing the bigger man by his shirt front and pulling him in close. He wrapped his legs around Jack’s tree-trunk of a torso and leaned in for a deep kiss. Jack settled his hands lightly on his hips. Brock pulled away, resting his forehead against the younger man’s forehead.  
“Thank you.” Brock said quietly.  
“I got no idea what you’re talkin’ about.” Jack drawled, a hand reaching to cup the back of Brock’s head.  
“No, of course not.” Brock smirked and pulled the other man in for another kiss.


End file.
